THE examination of the witnesses began. But we will not continue

our story in such detail as before. And so we will not dwell on how

Nikolay Parfenovitch impressed on every witness called that he must

give his evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he

would afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every

witness was called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so

on. We will only note that the point principally insisted upon in

the examination was the question of the three thousand roubles; that

is, was the sum spent here, at Mokroe, by Mitya on the first occasion,

a month before, three thousand or fifteen hundred? And again had he

spent three thousand or fifteen hundred yesterday? Alas, all the

evidence given by everyone turned out to be against Mitya. There was

not one in his favour, and some witnesses introduced new, almost

crushing facts, in contradiction of his, Mitya's, story.

    The first witness examined was Trifon Borissovitch. He was not

in the least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the

contrary, an air of stern and severe indignation with the accused,

which gave him an appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity.

He spoke little, and with reserve, waited to be questioned, answered

precisely and deliberately. Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore

witness that the sum spent a month before could not have been less

than three thousand, that all the peasants about here would testify

that they had heard the sum of three thousand mentioned by Dmitri

Fyodorovitch himself. "What a lot of money he flung away on the

Gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I daresay, on them alone."

    "I don't believe I gave them five hundred," was Mitya's gloomy

comment on this. "It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time,

but I was drunk..."

    Mitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He

listened gloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he

would say:

    "Oh, say what you like. It makes no difference now."

    "More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," retorted

Trifon Borissovitch firmly. "You flung it about at random and they

picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers,

they've been driven away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness

themselves how much they got from you. I saw the sum in your hands,

myself- count it I didn't, you didn't let me, that's true enough-

but by the look of it I should say it was far more than fifteen

hundred... fifteen hundred, indeed! We've seen money too. We can judge

of amounts..."

    As for the sum spent yesterday he asserted that Dmitri

Fyodorovitch had told him, as soon as he arrived, that he had

brought three thousand with him.

    "Come now, is that so, Trifon Borissovitch?" replied Mitya.

"Surely I didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three

thousand?"

    "You did say so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You said it before Andrey.

Andrey himself is still here. Send for him. And in the hall, when

you were treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you

would leave your sixth thousand here- that is, with what you spent

before, we must understand. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr

Fomitch Kalganov, too, was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd

remember it..."

    The evidence as to the "sixth" thousand made an extraordinary

impression on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new

mode of reckoning; three and three made six, three thousand then and

three now made six, that was clear.

    They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch,

Stepan and Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and

the driver unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch's evidence.

They noted down, with particular care, Andrey's account of the

conversation he had had with Mitya on the road: "'Where,' says he, 'am

I, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, going, to heaven or to hell, and shall I be

forgiven in the next world or not?'" The psychological Ippolit

Kirillovitch heard this with a subtle smile, and ended by recommending

that these remarks as to where Dmitri Fyodorovitch would go should

be "included in the case."

    Kalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and

ill-humoured, and he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met

them before in his life, though they were acquaintances whom he had

been meeting every day for a long time past. He began by saying that

"he knew nothing about it and didn't want to." But it appeared that he

had heard of the" sixth" thousand, and he admitted that he had been

standing close by at the moment. As far as he could see he "didn't

know" how much money Mitya had in his hands. He affirmed that the

Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to reiterated questions he stated

that, after the Poles had been turned out, Mitya's position with

Agrafena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and that she had said

that she loved him. He spoke of Agrafena Alexandrovna with reserve and

respect, as though she had been a lady of the best society, and did

not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of the young

man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ippolit Kirillovitch

examined him at great length, and only from him learnt all the details

of what made up Mitya's "romance," so to say, on that night. Mitya did

not once pull Kalganov up. At last they let the young man go, and he

left the room with unconcealed indignation.

    The Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in

their room, they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the

police officers they hastily dressed and got ready, realising that

they would certainly be sent for. They gave their evidence with

dignity, though not without some uneasiness. The little Pole turned

out to be a retired official of the twelfth class, who had served in

Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name was Mussyalovitch. Pan

Vrubelvsky turned out to be an uncertificated dentist. Although

Nikolay Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering the room they

both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovitch, who was standing

on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important

person and in command, and addressed him at every word as "Pan

Colonel." Only after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovitch himself,

they grasped that they had to address their answers to Nikolay

Parfenovitch only. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite

correctly except for their accent in some words. Of his relations with

Grushenka, past and present, Pan Mussyalovitch spoke proudly and

warmly, so that Mitya was roused at once and declared that he would

not allow the "scoundrel" to speak like that in his presence! Pan

Mussyalovitch at once called attention to the word "scoundrel," and

begged that it should be put down in the protocol. Mitya fumed with

rage.

    "He's a scoundrel! A scoundrel! You can put that down. And put

down, too, that, in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's

a scoundrel!" he cried.

    Though Nikolay Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he

showed the most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly

reprimanding Mitya, he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic

aspect of the case, and hastened to pass to what was essential. One

piece of evidence given by the Poles roused special interest in the

lawyers: that was how, in that very room, Mitya had tried to buy off

Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him three thousand roubles to

resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down, and the remaining two

thousand three hundred "to be paid next day in the town." He had sworn

at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at Mokroe, but that

his money was in the town. Mitya observed hotly that he had not said

that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in the town.

But Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the statement, and Mitya, after

thinking for a moment admitted, frowning, that it must have been as

the Poles stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might

indeed have said so.

    The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It

seemed to establish for the prosecution (and they did, in fact, base

this deduction on it) that half, or a part of, the three thousand that

had come into Mitya's hands might really have been left somewhere

hidden in the town, or even, perhaps, somewhere here, in Mokroe.

This would explain the circumstance, so baffling for the

prosecution, that only eight hundred roubles were to be found in

Mitya's hands. This circumstance had been the one piece of evidence

which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told, to some extent,

in Mitya's favour. Now this one piece of evidence in his favour had

broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he would

have got the remaining two thousand three hundred roubles, since he

himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitya confidently

replied that he had meant to offer the "little chap," not money, but a

formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of

Tchermashnya, those rights which he had already offered to Samsonov

and Madame Hohlakov. The prosecutor positively smiled at the

"innocence of this subterfuge."

    "And you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a

substitute for two thousand three hundred roubles in cash?"

    "He certainly would have accepted it," Mitya declared warmly.

"Why, look here, he might have grabbed not two thousand, but four or

six, for it. He would have put his lawyers, Poles and Jews, on to

the job, and might have got, not three thousand, but the whole

property out of the old man."

    The evidence of Pan Mussyalovitch was, of course, entered in the

protocol in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The

incident of the cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolay

Parfenovitch was too well pleased with them, as it was, and did not

want to worry them with trifles, moreover, it was nothing but a

foolish, drunken quarrel over cards. There had been drinking and

disorder enough, that night.... So the two hundred roubles remained in

the pockets of the Poles.

    Then old Maximov was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with

little steps, looking very dishevelled and depressed. He had, all this

time, taken refuge below with Grushenka, sitting dumbly beside her,

and "now and then he'd begin blubbering over her and wiping his eyes

with a blue check handkerchief," as Mihail Makarovitch described

afterwards. So that she herself began trying to pacify and comfort

him. The old man at once confessed that he had done wrong, that he had

borrowed "ten roubles in my poverty," from Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and

that he was ready to pay it back. To Nikolay Parfenovitch's direct

question, had he noticed how much money Dmitri Fyodorovitch held in

his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than

anyone when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the most positive

manner, declared that there was twenty thousand.

    "Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?"

inquired Nikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile.

    "To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife

mortgaged my little property. She'd only let me look at it from a

distance, boasting of it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all

rainbow-coloured notes. And Dmitri Fyodorovitch's were all

rainbow-coloured..."

    He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenka's turn. Nikolay

Parfenovitch was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance

might have on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him,

but Mitya bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand "that he

would not make a scene." Mihail Makarovitch himself led Grushenka

in. She entered with a stern and gloomy face, that looked almost

composed, and sat down quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolay

Parfenovitch. She was very pale, she seemed to be cold, and wrapped

herself closely in her magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from

a slight feverish chill- the first symptom of the long illness which

followed that night. Her grave air, her direct earnest look and

quiet manner made a very favourable impression on everyone. Nikolay

Parfenovitch was even a little bit "fascinated." He admitted

himself, when talking about it afterwards, that only then had he

seen "how handsome the woman was," for, though he had seen her several

times he had always looked upon her as something of a "provincial

hetaira." "She has the manners of the best society," he said

enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies. But

this was received with positive indignation by the ladies, who

immediately called him a "naughty man," to his great satisfaction.

    As she entered the room, Grushenka only glanced for an instant

at Mitya, who looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at

once. After the first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolay

Parfenovitch asked her, hesitating a little, but preserving the most

courteous manner, on what terms she was with the retired lieutenant,

Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov. To this Grushenka firmly and quietly

replied:

    "He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance

during the last month." To further inquisitive questions she

answered plainly and with complete frankness, that, though "at

times" she had thought him attractive, she had not loved him, but

had won his heart as well as his old father's "in my nasty spite,"

that she had seen that Mitya was very jealous of Fyodor Pavlovitch and

everyone else; but that had only amused her. She had never meant to go

to Fyodor Pavlovitch, she had simply been laughing at him. "I had no

thoughts for either of them all this last month. I was expecting

another man who had wronged me. But I think," she said in

conclusion, "that there's no need for you to inquire about that, nor

for me to answer you, for that's my own affair."

    Nikolay Parfenovitch immediately acted upon this hint. He again

dismissed the "romantic" aspect of the case and passed to the

serious one, that is, to the question of most importance, concerning

the three thousand roubles. Grushenka confirmed the statement that

three thousand roubles had certainly been spent on the first

carousal at Mokroe, and, though she had not counted the money herself,

she had heard that it was three thousand from Dmitri Fyodorovitch's

own lips.

    "Did he tell you that alone, or before someone else, or did you

only hear him speak of it to others in your presence?" the

prosecutor inquired immediately.

    To which Grushenka replied that she had heard him say so before

other people, and had heard him say so when they were alone.

    "Did he say it to you alone once, or several times?" inquired

the prosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushenka so several

times.

    Ippolit Kirillovitch was very well satisfied with this piece of

evidence. Further examination elicited that Grushenka knew, too, where

that money had come from, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had got it from

Katerina Ivanovna.

    "And did you never, once, hear that the money spent a month ago

was not three thousand, but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had

saved half that sum for his own use?"

    "No, I never heard that," answered Grushenka.

    It was explained further that Mitya had, on the contrary, often

told her that he hadn't a farthing.

    "He was always expecting to get some from his father," said

Grushenka in conclusion.

    "Did he never say before you... casually, or in a moment of

irritation," Nikolay Parfenovitch put in suddenly, "that he intended

to make an attempt on his father's life?"

    "Ach, he did say so," sighed Grushenka.

    "Once or several times?"

    "He mentioned it several times, always in anger."

    "And did you believe he would do it?"

    "No, I never believed it," she answered firmly. "I had faith in

his noble heart."

    "Gentlemen, allow me," cried Mitya suddenly, "allow me to say

one word to Agrafena Alexandrovna, in your presence."

    "You can speak," Nikolay Parfenovitch assented.

    "Agrafena Alexandrovna!" Mitya got up from his chair, "have

faith in God and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder!"

     Having uttered these words Mitya sat down again on his chair.

Grushenka stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the ikon.

    "Thanks be to Thee, O Lord," she said, in a voice thrilled with

emotion, and still standing, she turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and

added:

    "As he has spoken now, believe it! I know him. He'll say

anything as a joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you

against his conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may

believe it."

    "Thanks, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage,"

Mitya responded in a quivering voice.

    As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she

did not know what sum it was, but had heard him tell several people

that he had three thousand with him. And to the question where he

got the money, she said that he had told her that he had "stolen" it

from Katerina Ivanovna, and that she had replied to that that he

hadn't stolen it, and that he must pay the money back next day. On the

prosecutor's asking her emphatically whether the money he said he

had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna was what he had spent yesterday,

or what he had squandered here a month ago, she declared that he meant

the money spent a month ago, and that that was how she understood him.

    Grushenka was at last released, and Nikolay Parfenovitch

informed her impulsively that she might at once return to the town and

that if he could be of any assistance to her, with horses for example,

or if she would care for an escort, he... would be-

    "I thank you sincerely," said Grushenka, bowing to him, "I'm going

with this old gentleman; I am driving him back to town with me, and

meanwhile, if you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide

about Dmitri Fyodorovitch."

    She went out. Mitya was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but

only for a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange

physical weakness. His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination

of the witnesses was, at last, over. They procceded to a revision of

the protocol. Mitya got up, moved from his chair to the corner by

the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and

instantly fell asleep.

    He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place

and the time.

    He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been

stationed long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a

pair of horses, through snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in

November, and the snow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as

soon as it touched the earth. And the peasant drove him smartly, he

had a fair, long beard. He was not an old man, somewhere about

fifty, and he had on a grey peasant's smock. Not far off was a

village, he could see the black huts, and half the huts were burnt

down, there were only the charred beams sticking up. And as they drove

in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a lot of

women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of

brownish colour, especially one at the edge, a tall, bony woman, who

looked forty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin

face. And in her arms was a little baby crying. And her breasts seemed

so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in them. And the child

cried and cried, and held out its little bare arms, with its little

fists blue from cold.

    "Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked, as they

dashed gaily by.

    "It's the babe," answered the driver, "the babe weeping."

    And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the

babe," and he liked the peasant's calling it a "babe." There seemed

more pity in it.

    "But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly, "why are its

little arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?"

    "The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm

it."

    "But why is it? Why?" foolish Mitya still persisted.

    "Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're

begging because they've been burnt out."

    "No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me

why it is those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why

is the babe poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each

other and kiss? Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark

from black misery? Why don't they feed the babe?"

    And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and

senseless, yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just

in that way. And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had

never known before, was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry,

that he wanted to do something for them all, so that the babe should

weep no more, so that the dark-faced, dried-up mother should not weep,

that no one should shed tears again from that moment, and he wanted to

do it at once, at once, regardless of all obstacles, with all the

recklessness of the Karamazovs.

    "And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my

life, I'm coming with you", he heard close beside him Grushenka's

tender voice, thrilling with emotion. And his heart glowed, and he

struggled forward towards the light, and he longed to live, to live,

to go on and on, towards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten,

hasten, now, at once! "What! Where?" he exclaimed opening his eyes,

and sitting up on the chest, as though he had revived from a swoon,

smiling brightly. Nikolay Parfenovitch was standing over him,

suggesting that he should hear the protocol read aloud and sign it.

Mitya guessed that he had been asleep an hour or more, but he did

not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was suddenly struck by the fact that

there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't been there when he had

leant back, exhausted, on the chest.

    "Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried,

with a sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though

some great kindness had been shown him.

    He never found out who this kind man was; perhaps one of the

peasant witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary, had

compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head; but his

whole soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said

that he would sign whatever they liked.

    "I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice,

with a new light, as of joy, in his face.